The Greatest Loss of The Decade, read the big bold writing on the thin inked newspaper. Gregory Joseph "Brummy" Bramwell: A Parting Gift and Remembrance. So it is official. The old man has truly gotten himself killed. Always causing trouble for me in the most ridiculous ways but he made sure this was the last time.
The day was young, sealing the coloured cracks in the sky when dawn broke, the deadly sunshine reflecting off the dry metallic land while dust swirls around with the hot wind. Before I head off to the station today to resume Brummy's burden on me and care for the sheep that were now probably mine, I could spare a few minutes sipping a cuppa and visit the details of how my sad father came to die, or as the paper, or even the whole town between a fifty kilometre radius saw his passing as the Heroic Man that provided Grose Vale with hope. Losing him isn't much of a big deal for me, he was barely present in my life and only appeared in times he was desperately needed or if he could bothered to show his only child the ways of his business. He instead spent his time kissing the lips of his lover: the liquor flask. I settled into the tired old chair in front of the tired old house with a sigh and started reading.
"Today, Tuesday 27th of December, in the year of our lord 1916, one the most valuable members of our small, but tight-knit community has been lost to the tragic happenings of his passion." I chuckled. Yes a passion that kept him away for two and a half months without anything to leave behind for anyone to follow. No sign of him in our land, or any other drovers' that wanted a piece of our wealth. Everyone was of course pestering me of his whereabouts, so to make them quiet I said he was off interstate to make business boom here in this (wretched) town. They were incredibly happy, rejoicing that good old Brummy was going to save the day again, everyone smiled and celebrated except me. I had no idea what to do. He left me just like that, off to his dreamland probably. Away from his curse of promising salvation to the ones around him. We inherit it all: the title, the expectations, and the pain. I was disheartened and disappointed more than I could possibly imagine, but I worked long unappreciated hours to cater to the affliction he passed on to me.
"Sir Bramwell was quite the entertainer, always joking around giving the community a good hard laugh with his vibrant being. It is such a great loss to have this important and prized colleague, that made our economy flourish because of his sharp mind and witty tongue, leave. We were made aware of his state by a fellow Farmer, Mr Hugh Posey, while trekking around his property on Christmas Day. Mr Posey said that he found his mate lying on the beaten ground resembling a dead animal, obviously trying to lighten up the mood of such a devastating event, and inspected his butcher boots for identification. After he confirmed that it was truly Sir Bramwell, he jokingly stated again that: "I told him that it was the death of you when you were alive and now that you are dead, it preserves you like a mummy" referring to the bottle of liquor beside Sir Bramwell's delicate body."
There they go again, they try so hard to believe that everything about my father was a gift, erasing and ignoring anything giving them a sign that he was finished enduring it all. They developed a belief that all their Brummy was here for was nothing than to bless them with his presence. That's how they made sense of this small, isolated world. They have no idea what kind of man he really was, but at least one person other than me, Mr Posey who lived all alone with his ragged dog, who was excluded from the talks and discussions of the town understood what was happening to Father. He hated his land, but like me, he had no choice but to live on with such a weight on his shoulders. He hated the chatter about him, the constant favours and anticipations he could not fulfil. His poison and hatred for the environment he was born in and unfortunately had to live through, leaked into me. I too loathed it all. I despised how much unwelcomed responsibilities and obligations was put onto him, and now all of it is going to me.
"It is suspected that Sir Bramwell arrived a few days before Christmas from his trip to the nearest cities, most certainly bearing good news of more connections to the urban areas, and visited his prized livestock. As industrious as he was, he might have over worked himself, wandered off into Mr Posey's property and rested satisfied with himself for the hard work he has contributed to our town, celebrating with a few sips of his favourite rum. Unfortunately he was not able to wake from his well-deserved slumber." So that's how he went. He died the day he left the house.
Took himself to a place nobody would look for him, drank a little more as a farewell peck and slept till his breath stopped. He was finally done with all of it, and decided to give all his toxic gifts to me. He proved how harsh and damaging this land is, he was struck with the fear of losing any more than he could take, like he lost my mother. He stopped caring about what she left. He was still holding on to what was already gone, and now he is too. The land that that lets us live slowly kill us too, I guess he wanted to die another way.
The article, or obituary it was called became even more 'heartfelt' and emotional. I refrained from reading a single word about myself and how the property would be split. Everything would all go to me, unless some of these townsmen pry it off me. I dropped the newspaper to the ground, and as it dusted off dirt from its fall, I noticed that the ladies of the town will come over to comfort me. I did not need any more of this rubbish, so I pulled up my boots over my jeans, pulled my hair into a ponytail and placed the Akubra on my head and stepped out into the heat to live the life my father ended. I have to carry out his lost life, as much as I loathed him and this place. I'm tired but I have nowhere else to go. It all makes sense.
YOU ARE READING
Hereditary Affliction
Short StoryA short story inspired by Henry Lawson's short story: The Bush Undertaker. I did it for school but I was so impressed with my own writing that I just had to put it up somewhere.